Hard Row
by FraterKiller
Summary: Sam ran away to Stanford, leaving Dean knee-deep in addiction and their father's connections. But just as suddenly as he left, Sam's back, and Dean struggles to readjust the life he's lived for the past twenty-two years to fit into his little brother's expectations. Unfortunately, Dean has a problem, John's planning something big, and Sam's oblivious as to what's really going on.
1. 1: It Starts

**AN: Well, Ladies, I can say with confidence that this will be the last time I'm fucking with this! Part one is now officially up and edited, and part two will be returning shortly. I'm also going to squish everything into one story instead of the one-shot format I had going. It's just easier to maintain. :D**

**Also, I think I should've rated this as M, but let's see how it goes.  
**

**Part 1**

He turns the broken knob and pushes forward, the door swinging open with stubborn resistance as it catches on the dirty carpet. He steps one foot into the room, then the other; a slight nudge sends the warped wood swinging back by its own. He stows his twitching hands away into his coat pockets. Dad is watching TV, two-thirds of his Jack Daniels gone and eyes glazed over. Dean's pretty sure he's not watching the game, but edges around him and the empty bed all the same.

At the other end of the dive is the bathroom, door ajar and the lid to the toilet seat left up. The handle on this door works; it even has a lock on it. It's more privacy than he's usually allowed and he relishes in turning the small mechanism, ignoring the nagging voice in his head that says it wouldn't take much time to jimmy it open.

He stands over the sink but doesn't look at the broken mirror, makes a point to keep his gaze trained on his shaking hands and the cool cracked plastic handles. The water that gushes out is metallic and bitter, but he washes his face with it anyway.

He breathes deeply, then looks up.

The shadow is there, hovering over him with an oily touch caressing his shoulder in a parody of concern. He averts his eyes from it and turns off the water, his uncooperating hands slipping off the knobs. Beads of water run down his face and fall into the sink, each drip loud in the silence. He growls in frustration, and he fumbles, finally managing to shut the faucet off.

His demon makes a sound of disapproval.

"Not looking so hot there, Deanie." Dean stares into the mirror, somewhere above the black cloud. Its yellow eyes are focused on Dean, but he refuses to look back.

"I'm fine." The thing ignores his token protest.

"Haven't had a hit in awhile, huh?" The voice is false sympathy and liquid poison, and Dean observes stoically as the black oil moves down his back, cupping his cheek. He closes his eyes; he doesn't want to watch, doesn't want to see. It's been a few days since a needle has pierced his skin, and he hurts all over. His nose won't stop running and the headaches are getting worse.

He knows it's only a matter of time.

"I don't like you. Go away." It' a feeble protest, but the oil is gone from his cheek; strays around his lower back, travels down his leg. Somehow, the movement manages to demonstrate unspoken disappointment.

"Now, Dean," the voice says. "You know how this works. You _need_. That. Hit." The black moves down his arm, covers one shaking hand from the tips of his fingers to his wrist.

"I do _not_. Go the _fuck_ away."

"You need to have your hands steady." It chides him, as if the demon is disciplining a child. "Daddy dearest won't love you if you don't get _fixed_." It smoothes over his protests, brings reason to the front, and Dean wants to laugh at how much it sounds like his father.

He shakes his head. "You're going to leave," Dean growls, gripping the sink harder. It helps a little with the obvious shaking in his hands, but the vibrations travel up his arms instead."You're going to leave and you're never going to come back."

"I won't. I'm always here for you, you know that." The pitch changes again; this time to what he can remember of his mother's voice, and that moment reaffirms his utter hatred for the thing that won't leave his side. "I'll always be here."

He opens his eyes only to see that what was once hazel were now yellow, and that the black oil-that-isn't is covering his entire left side. He wants to laugh hysterically at the sight, but he doesn't and he draws back his hand to punch his reflection. He strikes out, but leaves his fist hovering above the surface of the glass; mostly in fear of his father hearing (_which would end in more memories of scars and broken glass, but we don't want those, no no no_) but also because he knows it wouldn't do any good.

He decides on words instead of violence.

"You're not real," he says slowly, clearly, bringing down his fist. "So go away." He looks away from the mirror to glare at the hovering cloud head on, but it blinks out of existence before he can face it beyond the world of reflections; like all the other times before.

There's silence, now.

He doesn't hesitate when he opens the only drawer in the room. He knows exactly where he left it; the syringe is waiting for him, stored in the back and needle glinting softly in the dim light. He kind of wonders what his actions make him out to be as a person, but the cynical not-smoke voice in his head says it doesn't matter anymore.

He thinks of sun and a mother's smile, thinks of lonely nights and too much alcohol, thinks of lingering touches and a grin from a mouth of rotting teeth, thinks about running noses and splitting headaches from withdrawal, thinks about his little brother's sad eyes. He hears his father yelling at either the game or some unlucky bastard through the thin walls, and for a moment, Dean wonders why he's allowed his life to become _this_.

He doesn't know exactly when he took the hit, when the needle slid between his fingers to pierce the blue vein_ (he never really notices the pain, never has, he's been through worse_ _before; he still thinks about how his brother frowned when he finally broke and shared what it was like ride the rush, "-just like adrenaline, Sam, but don't do it, don't you dare, they call it addicting for a reason, don't become me, Sam, swear to God or to whatever the hell you want-"_, but he knows exactly when he's living it; all bright colors and feelings and sounds he never gets from simply being _alive_.

Suddenly, the sound of pounding on the door breaks through his haze of gray and black and yellow sunshine. He thinks the door is forced open, but the mirror is spiraling away and red red _red_ is pricking at his face-

"_Dean! _Dean," and a horrified, "oh my _God_, you promised you wouldn't _do this_," but Dean lazily grins and rolls his head side to side. He won't be tricked again by the demon; his Sammy was far away from this hell. Got a full ride to Stanford, you know? He'd been gone two long years, but he's the smartest geek in America-

-he feels hands gripping his shirt and shaking him, snapping him out of happier memories.

"Leave me 'lone, Dad." Dean whines, closing his eyes tightly and pushing back. If he didn't sitstanddown _now_ he'd lose his Sammy _all over again_.

"Dean, Dean, It's me!" The frantic voice comes back, or maybe it never left, but his eyes blink half-open anyway and he sees a blurry head with shaggy hair.

"S'mmy?" He wonders aloud. Dean hears a chocked sob, and he frowns. That wasn't a Sammy sound; his Sammy never cried like that. Or maybe he was confusing Sammy with dad; that happened sometimes when they fought. Or, well, a lot of the time. It was confusing.

But there was something flying out of Sam's ear. Dean reached for it, trying to get a better look.

"You should get that checked out," he says offhandedly, but Sam grabs him and hauls him up, carrying his dead weight past the grime and the broken and the bloody pool on the floor that smells like alcohol and piss and despair. He doesn't fight it, just lets his little-big-brother take-rescue _him_ for a change.

A curt, "Stop rubbing your arms, Dean," forces him realize the redness on his arms wasn't him imagining it, but he continues doing it because it seems like the right thing to do.

He's suddenly in the back of the Impala, and as soon as he recognizes where his car, he pets the leather with a lazy grin. He doesn't want to sit down at all, a resounding chorus of "_Sammy is back_, _back, back_!" dancing around in his drug addled mind, but his baby brother is frowning at the wheel and a blond blur is sitting in the front seat.

He tries catching words as they spin out the window, but he fails; something about a hospital, he saw, but Sam's shaking his head and saying Dad-things like _no no he'll be okay he's had worse_, and it makes him kind of seasick, you know, watching his brother's long hair sway.

He shakes it off after a moment, takes his time to stare at the passing scenery of colors and delicious sounds, relishing in the deep rumbling of his car's engine. Sam should be grinning now, too; they're together and they're never going back.

He sighs happily and rubs the leather harder with both hands, before going back to rubbing his arms.

It was a good trip today; he's glad he found that supplier. He'd have to go again sometime after dad was done drinking and when Sammy stopped running.

_The drug, the drug is what understands me,  
silenced are the voices in my head.  
Drink myself to death on cocaine candy,  
twenty-one gun salute when they find me dead._

(lyric credit goes to Egypt Central)


	2. 2: It Slows

**AN: Re-edited part two, as promised. There is mucho cursing ahead! You've been warned. :D Part three will be posted soon. *crosses heart***

**The next chapter of Wiseguy is going to be posted either late today or two days from now, if you're following that story.**

* * *

**Part 2**

He remembers nausea and disappointment, and that the_ stupid fucking demon _was giggling. The sound was bouncing around and around and around and wouldn't _fucking stop_-

_blink_

-hard concrete and a long stretch of pale apartments; the sight as familiar as the back of his hand even though he'd never been there for longer than a few minutes-

_blink_

-Sammy turned sharply burning silver keys to shut off his baby's engine; he's yanked into bright sunlight. It hurt and it burned his eyes and it was very, very painful so he whimpered and tucked his head into his brother's broad shoulders and Sam carried-dragged him-

_blink_

-flashes of worried gold and Dean knows it's the same thing that suggested a hospital and it's followed him, following them from the car-

_blink_

-he knows when he's inside. It's quiet and dark and all colors finally became muted, and he can't process it at first so he just sits where Sam put him down, and almost falls off the chair in an attempt to skirt past the yellow eyes in the hanging wall photos. It doesn't work.

Then he slumps some and there's pain in his gut and _everywhere_ and it turns_ really_ dark.

The demon stops giggling.

"Something's wrong."

_You can hear it too?_ He wants to ask, but can't.

"-no _shit_-"

"-change of plans, Jess. I need you to stay here-"

There's acidic warmth leaking from his nose and m_outh and he hears a fear-noise and_.

_...he doesn't care. He doe**sn't give a goddamn fuck**._

_._

.

.

_Sammy._

* * *

He wakes up in a hospital bed with a shaggy head resting on his knee.

There's a familiar, persistent beeping from a heart monitor somewhere to his right, and there's drool on the sheets. He bets that if he moved his leg a centimeter to his right, he'd feel a cool dampness, so he stays as still as he possibly can.

_Sam-slobber,_ he thinks morosely, eyeing the long, thin stain with contempt. _Gross._

He wrinkles his nose and bends his leg, takes care in tucking his knee under Sam's chin and lifting up his brother's head a couple inches. The smooth rising and falling of Sam's chest stutters as he stirs, and he blinks blearily up at his brother through uncut hair. Dean's reminded of the way that Sam would look at him before he went to college, like he had all the answers in the world.

Just another one of those things that had changed.

"Morning, kiddo." His voice is rougher than he remembers it to be, but Sam does that sleepy half-grin that Dean hasn't seen in years, and his heart does an embarrassing flutter. The feeling of homesickness that had permeated throughout his body quietly slips away like water on oil, and a vice grip releases its hold on his chest.

It felt good to be home.

"Afternoon, actually." Sam's voice is quiet, like he's afraid that Dean's going to bolt. They watch each other for a few moments, taking their time, memorizing the changes and what stayed the same over their separation. Sam's wearing the gray hoodie that he had bought when he was fifteen, and he recalls that at the time that it had looked like Sam had been toting a tent over his shoulders. Now, it fit his tall frame well, wear and tear beginning to show at the edges, stray thread unraveling on the shoulder, and Dean is pleased at the sight.

His little brother: all growed up.

"They said it was an _overdose,_" Sam states, and the moment's gone.

Dean swallows and his fist tightens around the sheet. His right hand is bandaged pretty tightly, and he can't remember what he did to warrant it. Punch a mirror, maybe? Broken glass had always been so much _fun_.

"Yeah."

"An _overdose_, Dean," he repeats, like his stupid junkie brother's not getting it. Dean's pretty fucking sure he _does_. "You tried to commit _suicide_?"

"_Yes,_" the demon hisses, crawling out from the vent, black tendrils of something indefinable seeping through the vent, leaking down the wall like congealing blood.

_You finally decided to show your ugly ass, huh? _If the demon had hands or arms, it would probably look like it wouldn't mind strangling Dean. As it stands, though, it doesn't, so it just settles for growling instead.

"_That's not very nice_."

"Dean," Sam warns. He reaches forward to snap Dean out of his funk, but he sees the hand coming and jerks back, quickly pushing it away.

"_No_."

"Don't lie to me!" Sam's furious, and Dean's not ready to fight the hurricane that's his brother.

"I don't _know_, man. I don't _know_."

_Beep beep, beep beep_ goes the monitor.

"Dean, what," Sam begins, but Dean shakes his head, tunnel vision centered on his brother and going gray around the edges.

_Beep_ _beep_ _beep_ _beep_.

"I can't, Sam. Don't make me. Just. Not right now."

"Dean."

"Please," he whispers.

_Pause._

Sam exhales, nods slowly, scowls, _displeased_. He sits back in his chair to peer out from behind his bangs; watching, calculating.

_Play._

"Stop looking at me like that; you're being creepy." Truthfully, his brother scared him, sometimes; when Sam was younger, there were moments where he could be almost sociopathic in his drive. The calculating stare was something that had even given their father pause on occasion; Dean _never_ wanted _that_ face trained on him in _any_ situation.

Yet there it was.

"I saw one of the nurses talking to a cop," Sam starts slowly, ignoring Dean's cross order. "He's probably going to start asking questions." He eyes Dean's good hand, which isn't shaking for once. Dean figures it'll probably start up again later. "We need to get out of here."

"No, really? You read my mind." Sam's answering glare is withering.

"We're not through talking about this."

"I know." He hears something crashing one floor up, and out of the corner of his eyes, he sees the thing with yellow eyes flicker in and out and point at the ceiling, where a thick liquid (_I'll give you a dollar if you can figure it out, Deano_) is steadily soaking in a large, dark stain, dribbling small dots of red onto the ground.

It giggles, pleased.

Sam hasn't stopped looking away from him, though, so it's one of those things that only he can see and hear and _feel_.

He's getting tired of those.

(He does his best to ignore the smell of copper and ozone.)

Sam crosses his arms and props them on the guard rail of the bed. "You look like shit. When was the last time you ate something?"

"Don't be like that," he teases weakly, "you don't need to be jealous of my good looks." Sam gives him a dirty look. Dean was aware that he looked unwell. He knows he's lost weight, and they've both seen enough junkies (far too many; a safe neighborhood had never been their father's greatest concern when they were growing up) to recognize the gaunt, unhealthy look of a person in need of a fix on sight.

"_I think you look beautiful_," chirps the Thing.

_I'll take that as an insult._

Dean forcefully pulls himself out of his swirling thoughts, returning his attention back to his brother. Sometime between then and now Sam had leaned back, sitting rim-rod straight in the small chair; his face reverting back to being closed off and unreadable.

Dean sneaks a quick look at the clock hanging on the wall to his right; notes that it's been almost four minutes of silence.

Another _blackout_.

He hoped that Sam thought it was a drug related problem and not something else.

_"Maybe, maybe not. You know how Sam is_," the thing says sagely, having shrunk to the size of a small dog, floating over to Sam's head and turning around three times before nesting in Sam's hair.

_Fuckin' weird sense of humor you got there_, he thinks back.

Two blank yellow eyes blink down at him, slowly, the movement carefully measured to show boredom.

_Fuck you, _Dean thinks. The demon doesn't say anything. He swallows again – there's no spit in his mouth, none at all – and rubs the dead-looking skin around his IV. He finally looks his brother in the eye.

"Where's Dad?"

Sam's face doesn't twitch with any emotion at all, which is bad sign number one. He taught his brother how to wield his poker face; it was Dean's two-edged sword, still is, and as time had passed, it became Sam's first line of defense as well. This time was no different.

"I don't know." Bad sign number two.

"_Sammy_. Didja kill 'im?"

_Beep beep, beep beep_ goes the monitor.

"It's Sam," his little brother corrects, all prim and proper like that hadn't been his _name _for eighteen years. "And… I don't _think_ so." The sound of that doesn't give Dean a lot of confidence, and Dean knows that Sam's wanted Dad to die a bloody death for... a long time.

"You gotta be a little clearer, _Sammy_." Sam looks irritatingly smug, even _with_ Dean's emphasis on his name, and Dean wants to wrap his hands in Sam's shirt and shake him and scream _what the **hell**, dude, that's our **Dad** you're talking about _but watches him shrug instead.

The demon makes a sound of disappointment over his shoulder.

_"Shoulda done it, Deanie_." It hisses. It's bloodthirsty, like John, and Dean's given it what it wanted before, but not here, not now.

Not Sam.

_Shut up,_ he thinks back.

"I know I roughed him up a bit. If he's alive, he won't be coming after us anytime soon." Dean makes a mental note to check the motel to see if John left anything behind, and from his brother's unyielding stare, Sam suspects it, too.

"Your disappointment is overwhelming," Dean says dryly, immediately regretting it when Sam's face turns stormy grey and tense.

"John's a sick fuck and I'm sorry you were alone with him for two years."

Two years alone with John.

Seven hundred and thirty-one days.

Him and his Demon and John.

It seemed so much longer.

_Beep beep beep beep._

The demon floats to the ground and trots over, reverting to a vaguely human form to mime pulling his heart monitor's plug out of the wall fixture. (Dean makes a face at it, and Sam follows the movement, confused at what looks like his brother glaring at the window.)

"Baby," Dean blurts out, desperate for anything to knock the topic off course. The switch in conversation is painfully obvious, but thankfully, Sam lets it go. (He knows it'll only be a matter of time before his brother decides to talk about it, and he's not looking forward to that at all, nope nope nope.)

"Calm down. _It's_ in the parking lot."

"Is _she_ damaged?"

"Not even a scratch." Sam takes hold of his brother's hand; his long, scarred fingers squeezing Dean's equally battered ones. His laughing face turns serious, kind.

Another mask.

Dean hates that face.

"We're going to figure this out, Dean."

"No shrinks," he blurts out, his voice more desperate than he intended. Sam looks puzzled, brown eyes darkening just a tad, and Dean knows that he said something _wrong_and now Sam's going to overturn stones that he really shouldn't.

His head is a can of worms that he never wants Sam to touch, _ever_.

"Of course not," Sam says slowly, but deciding to stay silent again, the unspoken warning of _just_ _for_ _now_ hanging over Dean's head like an executioner's blade.

Well, whatever. Sam's control problems were going to have to wait.

Dean yawns but doesn't tell his brother to let go, enjoying the warmth that envelops his hand. He cracks an eye open to see the demon dancing above Sam's head, mock-wringing his neck with twists and spiraling around him, through the air, _twistin_g and turning and _twisting _again.

He doesn't know exactly why, but he laughs.

Sam's mouth goes flat and sure and for a moment there, he really wishes that he'd just been left to die.

* * *

_I got a fresh opinion now,  
I think it's best just to take it and go under.  
Swallow, boy, you can't miss,  
it lets you spend some time in bliss._

_Come on down. _

_…this is my world._

(lyric credit goes to Filter)


	3. 3: It Arcs

**AN: Done and done! Next chapter might be awhile...**

**Part 3**

He kind of remembers the rest of the hospital visit, but it was blurry and his hands were shaking and his nose was running and he really wanted a fucking fix, _fuck_ you _very_ much.

While he was preoccupied with sweating and twitching and doing his best not to hurl the meager amounts of water he'd managed to keep down as his hallucinations came and went, Sam somehow sweet-talked the nurses into stopping the constant flow of flyers from AA groups and advertisements for sober living houses.

He doesn't actually know how long he's been there; Sam doesn't say anything and Dean doesn't ask. He figures it must've been at least two days, maybe more. It's not like it actually matters to him, anyway; he's pretty out of it for the majority of his admittance. The most he can piece together from this drugged half-awareness he's been sucked into is a few words tossed back and forth over his head – _tested_ _negative for_ _Hep C, too many track marks, permanent scarring; recovery, group homes_ – and when it gets to be too much, he stops fighting for consciousness and allows himself to sink into a dreamless sleep, his brother's dark form hovering near the doorway.

* * *

He blinks awake to Sam shaking his shoulder sometime during the small amount of visiting hours that family is allowed. The tan, sun-bleached curtains are drawn, but light still wiggles its way through the loose weave. It doesn't help his headache any, but he knows if he can go back to sleep it won't matter.

"The doc's about done with you," Sam says, voice thick with exhaustion, "at this rate, you're going to be released before seven. Hospital's overcrowded."

"…coulda just signed me out," Dean rasps. Sam doesn't fit the hospital chair that the harried nurse put beside the bed; his frame is too large, but he somehow manages to make it work. A life of practice would do that to a person, Dean knows.

"No way I woulda let you leave 'fore those test results came in."

"Yeah, okay."

Sam's face is shadowed. He needs more sleep.

The patient to their left coughs, the sound dry and weak. The brothers' eyes flick over to the patterned cloth that offered only the illusion of privacy. After a moment, Sam nods and stands up to leave, hands balled into fists.

Dean leans back and closes his eyes.

(His demon snores obnoxiously, stretched out on the other chair, featureless face tipped back.)

They leave it at that.

* * *

A day later, he's discharged in a flurry of papers and wakes up to a tired nurse sanitizing and preparing his side of the room for another arrival.

Sam appears later on and wheels him out, taking over for the nurse with a gentle brush off and a smile (when he looks, the other bed is empty and cold, and he wonders where that person ended up, whether or not they're worth the trouble of getting better, being _saved_) and Sam wrestles with the chair as they both do their best to push it into the elevator.

There are other people inside who dutifully move out of the way for Sam's muscular frame (_must be eatin' your wheaties, Sammy),_ but the brothers still end up squished close together when the silver doors shut. Dean's pretty sure that Sam's also twitching at how close everyone is squished together, but his neck feels too stiff to warrant the motion to check, so he doesn't.

The five floors take forever to pass, but when the metal doors open, they're the first out and into the hallway. After a stretch of tile and loitering patients, there's a strong breeze and cold air hitting his face as the automatic doors open. Sam wheels him outside, and his car's sloping black roof enters his line of sight.

He pushes himself out of the chair, wobbles as he stands, shoving away Sam's steadying hands. (He takes his time running his hands over every part of his Chevy he can reach; he thought he'd never see his baby _ever_ _again_.

Sam rolls his eyes.)

After he's done inspecting, he croons, "Sam took good care of you, didn't he, baby." He's already planning to dive under the hood a little later, and he sees Sam shaking his head as he folds the wheelchair and loads it into the back.

"No tune-ups," he warns, unlocking the driver's side and sliding onto the seat. He reaches over to unlock the passenger side door. "Not 'til you can smile without lookin' like you're gonna hurl." (Dean notices that Sam's accent has relaxed now that they're out of earshot of the nurses and patients, wants to scoff at his hypocrisy_. There ain't no hiding what you are_, their dad had said, once, and Dean wholeheartedly agreed.)

Dean scowls, but opens his door the rest of the way. They settle down onto the bench seat simultaneously, and Dean savors the musty smell of sun-warmed leather, gun oil, dust and sweat; vastly different than the sterile hospital room. Sam doesn't look like he's going to start the car any time soon, deliberately busying himself as he rolls down his window and adjusts the rearview mirror.

They sit awkwardly in the silence, and Dean wants to break the thick tension in the air, but Sam clears his throat and turns the key in the ignition. A moment later, Sam smacks his brother's hand away from the box of cassettes under the driver's seat.

"Don't you dare." Dean kicks Sam's ankle and makes a successful grab for the box.

He settles the box on his lap and digs through the disorganized mess. "Okay, so maybe not Zeppelin..."

"Dean-"

"What about _Desolation_ _Angels_?"

"No." Dean holds up a white cassette that had seen better days, inspects the tape underneath the plastic flap, and Sam does his best not to scowl in frustration.

"Oh, hey! The Rolling Stones."

"I said _no_, Dean."

(They end up bickering over and eventually settling on an oldies station playing a Johnny Cash marathon; Dean tips back his head and mouths the words _shot_ _a man in Reno, just to watch him die_ when he thinks Sam isn't looking. Sam sees it, but keeps silent. For all he knows, Dean might've actually killed somebody in Reno.

John certainly had.)

The roads are crowded and slow, and Dean nods off in the passenger seat more than once, only to wake himself up abruptly when he sinks too far into the black.

He _blinks _and opens his eyes, and Sam's stopping the car and helping him into the motel, his head lolling back in exhaustion. When they're inside, Sam pushes him towards the couch, grabs the yellow plastic ice bucket to stash next to the furniture, and says, "Get some sleep."

His head hits the cushion, the world darkens and runs sepia, and that's the last thing he remembers for a long time.

* * *

Metal springs from a cheaply made cushion dig into Dean's right side, and when he opens his eyes, he sees an ugly brown plaid that would look comfortably at home somewhere in the back room of a Salvation Army. He smells sweat and dust, notes how worn the fabric is and how there's virtually no padding underneath the backrest of the couch; wonders why his brother would pick this particular piece of furniture when there must've been other, better choices.

After a moment he can hear the metallic clinking of a gun being pulled apart to be cleaned, and the faint whiff of a familiar brand of gun oil. He holds still to fake sleep, barely tensing, and after a moment of inner debate, shifts onto his back. Blinking up at the ceiling, he realizes that Sam must have covered him with a jacket during the night. He sniffs again, and under all of the dust and oil, he recognizes the flat tang of _Sam_.

He can tell that the drugs from the hospital wore off awhile back; he's sore all over and his throat burns, raw and uncomfortable from throwing up. The scent of bile and coffee hangs thick in the air. He glances to his left without moving his head, a quick flick of his eyes, and Sam looks up in acknowledgment. He brushes his bangs out of his face, greets Dean with a small smile.

(His demon is nowhere to be seen. It worries him.)

"Hey," Sam says softly, "I made coffee." Dean slowly sits up, pulling the thick jacket off of him before it falls. He folds it vertically and drapes it across the cushion, the navy blue stark against the light, faded seat.

Dean looks around, taking note of the cramped kitchenette to his left and the medium sized table to his right. It's missing a fourth chair. The ratty shag carpet is stained, and the walls are adorned with dusty wall prints framed in black plastic. It's the usual type of motel that their family frequented; shitty, carefully routine, and anonymous.

"Where're we?" he asks, groggy.

"A motel outside 'a Palo Alto. Room 12, if it makes any difference. You had to finish detoxing somewhere, and I didn't want it to be at my place." The silence stretches uncomfortably, and Sam adds, pseudo-casually, "Jess is there, you know. I didn't want her to see you…"

A gibbering mess.

Puking uncontrollably.

Cursing and groaning.

_Circle D for all of the above_, _Dean_.

(He's kind of stupidly taken with the huge coat, and he runs his fingers over the soft gray inner lining. It's a Sam-coat, alright.)

"Where's your girl?"

"Left her at our apartment." Which, in Sam-speak, pretty much meant _we have things we need to talk about and I didn't want her to hear them_. (Dean's betting that also means Sam hasn't told the new girlfriend anything about their line of work, but sometimes his brother has these weird ideas about how privacy works concerning their life, so. The girl might know _something_.)

Sam pushes the firing spring back into Dean's Colt a little too forcefully to be considered casual.

"Oh." Dean pokes his dry tongue around his equally dry mouth. He idly wonders if his brother would give him any painkillers or block him from taking something as innocuous as that. "How much does she know?"

"Not a lot," is Sam's carefully neutral answer. "Jess stayed outside, Dad and I argued, I drove you to the hospital, and Dad was gone when I went back." Dean narrows his eyes, chews on that for a moment, nods. It sounds like Dad; resilient as a cockroach on steroids. (He knows Sam wouldn't appreciate the comparison, his laugh would be brittle and bitter, his eyes hard and-

-no. Not thinking about that.)

"Gee, is that all." Sam rolls his eyes. "You went back, though." Dean's a little surprised his brother even took the effort to consider it. "When was that?"

"A day or so."

"Why'd you drag her with you?" It comes out as accusing, but he can't find it in himself to care. Sam's calloused hands slide the barrel back onto the base; the _shnick_ of metal sliding in place is short and harsh. The gun resets itself with a click. The sound comes across as a little ominous, and Dean can't stop the shiver that runs down his spine, or the instinctual grab for his combat knife even as his mind screams that Sam would never hurt him like _that_.

He grabs at air and his leather sheath, and he can't stop a small, silent snarl when his hand closes around nothing.

Sam shrugs.

"Don't look at me like that; she insisted. I couldn't discourage her at all."

"I's not about _her_. You took my _knife_." He pats himself down, ignoring Sam's smugness.

Sam can't hide his smug grin, the little shit. "All of 'em, actually."

"I know that, dipshit! But I want my _favorite_ knife. Where the fuck is it?"

"Where you won't find it."

"Awesome," Dean says sarcastically. He places his hands in his lap, his ring catching the dim yellow light from the brown hanging lamp. Sam exhales slowly, one calloused hand letting go of the gun long enough to run a hand through his hair.

"Like I'd let you carry a knife in the state you're in, much less a _gun_." Dean grits his teeth and opens his mouth to argue, but Sam shakes his head. "Live with it, dude. I had to take everything off before you were admitted to the hospital. You'll get it later."

"Whatever," he grouches.

Sam sighs.

"I figured you'd need it. The coat, I mean." Dean processes this for about half a second, surprised at the abrupt switch from the offensive to an olive branch.

"Thanks," is what he finally decides on. (It's a nice word; not mean or hurtful at all.) "It's warm." The younger man nods and ducks his head again, fingers tracing the raised patterns on the barrel.

He shifts on the couch, unsure where to put his hands. "What now?"

"No idea. You tell me," Sam deadpans.

Dean's too disorientated to think of a comeback, so he pushes off the cushion and sits down across from his brother, blinking away his residual drowsiness. The younger man pushes the rest of the unassembled gun across the scratched formica; the pieces of bright metal reflect the dim light from the overhead lamp.

"You can finish your own gun," Sam says. He scoots his chair back and walks over to the counter. Getting two mugs out from the cupboard, he sets them down, chipped porcelain clicking on the faded linoleum. His hand closes around the ancient coffee maker; he pours coffee into both of the mugs and turns, two steaming cups held in both hands.

"You haven't been cleaning it properly," Sam chides, walking back over and setting down one of the mugs. Dean accepts the one offered to him, a blue mug reading _Left Handers Have Rights Too!_ He decides to overlook the fact that they're both self-taught ambidextrous (_broken fingers and casts; live to know it, know to hate it_) and see the humor in it.

He takes a sip; it's too weak. (Sam always made it that way.)

"You should be careful," Dean jokes weakly, "somebody might think you actually care." Sam doesn't say anything, just watches his brother. Dean looks down at the gun on the table, scowls, and takes a big swig from his mug, the liquid heat soothing the jagged edges of his headache.

Sam's huge hands encompass his equally huge mug. He slumps, his six and a half foot frame somehow fitting into the rickety chair, waiting patiently for his brother to stop stalling and start talking. (Dean knows he can't get out of Sam's end game plan, whatever that is, but he does hold priorities for his own curiosity.)

"How'd you find me?" Sam grimaces; a small twitch on the left side of his face, and Dean knows that Sam had probably done something illegal to find him. A small swell of pride bloom in his chest, but he squashes it firmly before it shows.

"I heard there was a disturbance at a motel," Sam says grudgingly, tapping an index finger on the table. "Black muscle car, two men, and I put two and two together." Dean raises an eyebrow and reaches for his still unassembled gun, running his hands over the pearl grip.

Dean decides he feels marginally better; the effort to admit that he'd broken the law after getting into the motherfucking _Ivies_ must've cost Sam a lot.

"You _totally_ stole a cop radio," Dean crows gleefully, leaning in obnoxiously and poking Sam's arm. "which means you _totally_ broke the law! Couldn'ta done it better myself." Sam swats the finger away.

"No," he denies carefully, "They're these things called online broadcasts, you should look them up sometime." There's a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth saying otherwise, though, so Dean sits back, smug.

"I call bull."

"Don't expect you to believe me..."

They grin at each other over the table.

Then, Sam leans across the table, chin in his hands. Dean freezes, mentally scrambles back; he _knows_ that look. Horror seeps into his chest, and he's trapped; Sam has him where he wants him and Dean thinks, _this is it; this is the moment Sam was waiting for _and wonders why letting his guard down around his brother could ever be considered a good idea.

"I need to know how you've been gettin' your supply."

"I ain't tellin' and you ain't gonna know."

"I know that it started after juvie," he continues, as if Dean hadn't spoken. Dean can't find it in himself to be mad; he's too wrung-out for that. "I just don't know how. Care to enlighten me?"

(-_Cassie had been big eyes and wiry, dark hair and skinny body, but she'd offered him temporary relief in more ways than one_-)

"Uh, _no_."

Sam takes a deep breath. "Well, it doesn't matter now. We're going to get you clean." Dean can't help but snort.

"Nice try."

"No, seriously," he says humorlessly, "I'm not giving you a choice." Dean shakes his head, looks to the side, the stained walls far more interesting then they had been previously.

"…That's what dad said."

"All he wanted for you was to be his little _solider_," Sam says, distain clear in his voice, "of course he'd say that! But he didn't really care, did he. He knew you were sneaking out to get a fix… or maybe he urged you to do it. Anything to keep you in line, right?" Dean's head snaps up.

"Don't talk about Dad like that," he stands up, fists clenching. "Don't you fuckin' _dare_."

"Oh, so his white supremacy was okay?" Sam meets him, toe-to-toe, towering over him like the wrath of God, and Dean remembers what a scary sonovabitch his little brother can be (not that he had ever forgotten). "What about the gun dealings? How old were you when he allowed you to solo a job, huh?"

"_Fifteen_," the demon coos, a small voice wrapped around his mind, "_and your hands didn't shake at all_."

"I'm not _like_ him."

"I didn't _say_ that."

Dean shakes his head. _No, no, no. This is wrong, I don't wanna fight,_ he wants to say. "You know I never bought into any 'a his shit, Sam," he says instead.

"I know that. I know _you_." Sam reaches out and squeezes Dean's shoulder, all fake sincerity and _tell me all your problems, friend Dean. _Dean wants to shake it off, but doesn't. It's best to give Sam what he wants; it's either that or a cold shoulder, and there's no way Dean can handle that right now. Dad up and left, which was fine, because he had business down in Santa Cruz, but right now, Sam's all he has left.

They're quiet for awhile, and then Sam says, "Why'd you stay?"

"You can't just fuckin' let it go, can you." He's bitter, somewhere inside, because Sam would _never_ just 'let things go'. It was like asking a bulldog to let go of a bone.

"Tell me."

"…I needed to watch him." Sam pulls back, disappointment scrawled across his features. Like he _cares_. (_Which he doesn't_, Dean thinks, _he doesn't care about him or dad at all, only his school and his girlfriend and maybe a little bit of revenge on the side, that's what weekends are for, after all_-)

"Of all the fucking-" Too many emotions flash across Sam's face; disgust, hate, maybe a little concern, but Dean can't really tell. Sam's changed too much. "I can't believe you. You _know_ better than to put yourself in danger like that!"

"No, you don't get it!" Sam scoffs and begins pacing the floor.

"Oh, I don't, do I? Like I didn't go through the same hell you did for eighteen years?"

"Look, Sam-"

"No! You listen to me!" Sam growls, eyes narrowed, body tense and furious. "He has a rap sheet longer than your _arm_." He wasn't kidding. They'd both seen it. "You could've turned him into the cops, came with me when I left." Dean's hand tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his mug, and he thought of the ways you could kill a person with a piece of fired clay.

(Dad would probably know more than he did, and he most definitely doesn't think of that small diner in Tucson where one of their father's more _interesting_ jobs had taken place.

It had taken forever for the blood to wash out of Sam's jacket.)

"Like they weren't gonna pick me up; woulda been a two-for-one deal."

"What about bail?" Dean laughs.

_"Dude._ I'm wanted for four counts of murder, B and E, and credit card fraud on the side for flavor; a judge ain't gonna grant bail for me. Besides, even if I _did_ get bail, where would you've gotten the cash?" Sam exhales, shakes his head.

"Yeah, okay, but. I got _friends,_ man, why'd you think I went for a degree in criminal law in the first place? Why I stayed here for so long?" Sam wiggles his fingers, like he doesn't know what to do with them. "You're family, Dean."

"Yeah, well." Dean taps the mug with a dirty fingernail. "_He's_ family." He knows it's going to set Sam off, but he can't _not_ say it.

"Did it ever occur to you that he never acted like a _dad_?"

"You're throwing it out of proportion, Sam! Dad understands what family does; it looks out for each other, no matter what." Dean shakes his head, bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. "_You, _though_. _You _left_, Sam."

_Dad never abandoned me, even after you did._

It's a low blow and they both know it, but Sam swallows and sits down, so Dean mentally marks it as victory.

Dean spins on his heel, winds up his arm and throws his mug at the wall with all the force he can muster. The resulting shatter hurts his ears, and the coffee soaks into the cheap water-based paint, a brown stain leaking down the wall, and he stares at it blankly, ignores Sam's angry cursing.

Dean knows his brother's never going to find all of the pieces.

(Of him, the mug, or otherwise.)

Sam stands up, stares at the floor then back at the wall and then at his brother and back again, stuffs his hands in his pockets. His shoulders are slumped, defeated.

"Never thought you'd end up with a fucked up junkie for a brother, huh?" Dean says, almost managing to play it as nonchalant. Sam doesn't answer, stomps into the bathroom and slams the door.

Dean looks down.

The demon winds around his ankles, crawling steadily upward until it's hanging around his waist. "_That could've gone better,_" it snarks, pooling steadily backwards into his shadow, "_not like it's ever going to be, but, you know._"

Dean closes his eyes, sits back down on the couch, and buries his head into his hands.

(He realizes the sound of Sam's hitched, muffled breaths isn't him crying, but something akin to hysterical laughter.)

* * *

_Do you see me, sitting here;  
I'm waiting for you to say anything,  
My head's hung low, I'm kicking stones down,  
Kickin' stones down the road to hell, now;  
I'm waiting for you to say anything._

(Lyric credit goes to Drowning Pool)


End file.
